Dance me to the end of the revolution

Yet Another Tale of Discrimination

A Palestinian family, mother, father and a 10 years old son, a British activist and myself, a strange company, what can I say, are making our way from Jayus to Tel Aviv. We arrive at Qalqiliya checkpoint, or in its formal name Eliyahu crossing, and I get but a taste of the Palestinian checkpoints experience.

“ID” demands the soldier.

She's staring at 3 blue ID cards, and one British passport with growing suspicion, matching faces and photos and asks me:

“So, how do you know each other?”

“We're friends”

“All of you?”

“Yes. All of us.”

“How do you know him?”

“I met him in Scotland.”

“I keep the Ids, turn right, park the car, and get searched.”

“Everybody out of the car.”

“Stay in the car.”

“I said, everybody out of the car.”

I'm thinking to myself “Will you simply make up your mind”, as I'm opening and closing, and reopening doors.

A rifle points at us, and there's a finger on the trigger. A different soldier starts shooting questions at me.